


Not A Lesser Man

by HPFandom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, First Time, M/M, Sexual Content, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-30
Updated: 2006-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-30 08:06:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10158254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HPFandom_archivist/pseuds/HPFandom_archivist
Summary: Forced to lay low at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, Ron and Remus try to help Harry finding the Horcruxes, but find something else instead... Ron's POV.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from SeparatriX, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [HP Fandom](http://fanlore.org/wiki/HP_Fandom_\(archive\)), which was closed for health and financial reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [HP Fandom collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hpfandom/profile).

_This is for lady_aubrey, who ages ago requested a story with this pairing in exchanege for a Sirius/Draco ;)_

_Thanks to **crazybee** and **lady_aubrey** for betaing this for me!_

_They're not mine. I'll give them back once I'm done. Really._

~ooOoOoo~

_DRAWING DOWN THE MOON_

“Oh, for God’s sake! We’ve been through these sodding books at least a million times! I know the answer is somewhere hovering in front of my nose, and I just can’t get my hands on it!”

Remus Lupin actually slams the book he’s been reading back on the table and leaps to his feet, pacing restlessly through the room. Back and forth. I watch him, fiercely reminded of a trapped animal. A trapped wolf. Which he actually is. I feel an oddly pleasant shiver running down my spine.

My face grows warm and I suspect it also becomes red. Damn, I always look like a fucking Muggle traffic light when I’m nervous. And nervous I am. It must be Remus’s presence; he seems to have this effect on me a lot lately. So I lower my gaze back to the papers I have been flipping through, and worry my lower lip between my teeth, willing the blush off my face.

It’s been like this for days. Ever since school came to an early and unexpected end in June. Ever since Dumbledore’s murder. We’re all (that is – Harry, Remus, and me, with members of the Order popping in every now and then) assembled in number twelve, Grimmauld Place, the house that was once owned by Sirius and is now owned by Harry. Who hates it. He hates this place because everything is so very Sirius here. Not that the man had ever been particularly fond of the building, but still it feels like Sirius’s spirit is everywhere. It radiates from every piece of furniture; it hovers in the air, in between molecules of oxygen and carbon dioxide.

Even I can sense it, although I was far less connected to Sirius when he was still alive. I don’t even want to imagine what torture it must be for Harry to be here, to live in the house he has inherited from his godfather, the man whose death Harry blames himself for. He says he doesn’t feel guilty anymore, but I know better.

I share a room with Harry and he cries at night, when he is dreaming. Sometimes he screams. Sometimes he talks while he is still asleep. Hermione said there was a word for this, but I forgot it. There were too many S’s and O’s in it. Solino-something. Harry screams names, for example. So far I’ve woken up to furious yells of, “Malfoy!” and “Snape!” as well as to a sobbed, “Sirius.” I’ve never heard him say Dumbledore’s name, however. Perhaps it’s just too long for a sleeping mind to recall?

The atmosphere is tense around the spooky house. It feels like we’re sneaking around on tiptoes all of the time. Harry freaks out over everything at the moment, and I’m constantly walking on eggshells so I won’t give him a reason to hit the roof. I’m terribly sorry Hermione is not with us right now (she’s visiting her parents for a week or two, just to calm them down), since we could really do with an extra brain here. First, she could talk to Harry. She has a way of getting through to him I never could copy. Harry and I don’t talk about… you know, things like this. We’re both uncomfortable with it, so we just pretend everything is alright, even though we both know it’s not. I know Harry hurts, and he knows I know, and that’s enough. Hermione is different. She won’t stop talking at him until he finally breaks and cries and tells her everything. I can’t watch this; it makes me miserable. I know he needs to be allowed to break from time to time, but I’m not strong enough to deal with my best friend’s misery. Or perhaps I am, but Harry is not. It’s difficult to let go in front of your best mate, isn’t it? After all, what do you have female friends for? 

That’s why I’m offering help in any other way I’m asked to. That’s why I agreed on being stuck in the library with Remus, my eyes sore from reading innumerable, aged letters in countless books. Which is saying something, since I’ve never read more than the monthly Quidditch magazine voluntarily. I feel like Ancient Runes would have been a piece of cake compared to this, and I really hope Harry appreciates the sacrifice I’m making. This is the second reason why Hermione should be here. She would be of great help in our research for the Horcruxes. We’ve been through almost every ancient, dusty tome we could lay our hands on (I fiercely suspect Remus purposely picks the oldest and dustiest ones he can find: the more pages falling out by just looking at them, the better), and still there’s nothing, no single hint, for us, to be found. It is really getting frustrating.

Remus’s mood is getting worse from day to day. I can’t tell whether this current fit of furious impatience is due to the fact Magic Older Than Wizardkind has just fallen apart in his hands, but it probably was the proverbial last straw breaking the camel’s back. I’d also say dumping Tonks two weeks ago didn’t help to ease his temper either. Quite the contrary, actually. She’s been running around with red rimmed eyes and unkempt, ordinary hair ever since, tossing the man hurt glances whenever they meet. And, if the low growl I heard coming from Remus’s throat the last time she let slip a provoking sob is anything to go by, I’d say that he is by now badly annoyed.

The whole situation is unnerving me, too, but still it is somewhat frightening to see our last bastion of sensibility falling. Because that is what’s happening; Remus Lupin is slowly but certainly breaking. It’s a steadily progressing process, like a disease that starts small and unimportant in a minor part of the body, and slowly makes its way to the essential organs, getting worse and worse until you cannot stop it anymore. Until it has eaten you up from inside. Never before have I seen Remus Lupin – calmness embodied – lose his temper like this. Never before have I even heard him raise his voice, let alone shout.

When I look at him now, I can see the wolf stirring beneath the surface. I couldn’t think of Remus as a werewolf before, although I saw him shifting at full moon, back in our third year. He’s been hiding it all too well. But now I can imagine. Remus’s self-control is crumbling like old paint on a fence, and the beast’s presence is radiating from him in waves, waves of anger, frustration, rage, and impatience. 

I wonder where the true Remus Lupin stops and the wolf begins, whether the calm and polite façade is just that: a disguise, something he made up to ban the wolf within. Perhaps he is, beneath that surreal, quiet surface, exactly as scared, uncertain, and furious as the rest of us. Perhaps even more so, since he’s been holding back all these sentiments for such a long time now, which probably only strengthened them. 

Remus has stopped his pacing and come to a halt in front of the window. He stands very still, immobile, and looks – no, stares – out at the night sky. I wonder whether he watches the rising of the silvery crescent that is the moon. It will take at least two more weeks until it is full, but there already is a yearning expression in the man’s eyes that startles me.

There is something inexplicably holy about the picture. But despite the superficial calm, a certain danger lies within the vision of a werewolf staring, so full of longing at the moon, the symbol of his doom. I wonder if he even wishes for the full moon to come, whether he wants to feel the animal strength pulsing through the beast’s body. Perhaps he waits for the wolf to free all the pent-up emotions. I fancy that Remus, being Remus, is a prisoner of his own mind, bound by all the responsibility, the reasonability he is determined to maintain. But the wolf can make it so he doesn’t need to keep his calm anymore. The wolf can set him free.

I don’t know if that’s the truth, though. Perhaps I’m completely amiss here, and Remus is afraid of the wolf; perhaps he doesn’t want to see what lies at the bottom of his soul, – the darkness, the despair – doesn’t want any of it of be there. Still, the image is appealing to me. 

I catch myself thinking about walking over to the man and wrapping my arms around his waist. I am now as tall as he is, perhaps even slightly taller, and I would be able to bury my nose and lips in that hazel hair. I could take in the scent of a man hiding a beast in his lean, bony body.

I jerk in horror when I realise what is on my mind. I shouldn’t think these thoughts. It’s one thing to be fascinated with a man that is as close to a dangerous, murderous beast as a man can be. It’s a completely different thing, however, to be _attracted_ to this man. 

I realise I’ve been staring at Remus for minutes. And when I look up, I meet his eyes. They are the colour of amber, of clay, of honey, of gold. Why is it there are so many words to describe them? Why is it they all come to my mind unbidden? Why is it I can’t look away? 

I feel how the familiar heat crawls up from the collar of my shirt and settles in my face, forming the telltale blush. Still, I seem unable to turn my head away; I can’t even close my eyes. I feel trapped. Remus holds my gaze for what seems like ages, his expression inexplicable and his eyes without the warm smile that used to be there, in former times. Nowadays, Remus doesn’t smile anymore; sometimes he smirks or even grins, but that’s not the same. 

When he finally lowers his gaze and frees me from his glare, I feel relieved as much as disappointed. What did I expect?

Remus lets out a sigh that comes close to a growl. He walks over to the cupboard and takes out a bottle of Firewhisky. I watch him as he pours a glass. The colour of the liquid is similar to Remus’s eyes. I watch with fascination as he raises the glass to his lips and empties it with a few draughts. I admire the way his Adam’s apple jumps up and down his throat when he slowly swallows the burning liquid. 

I’ve already tasted Firewhisky, once, when Fred and George bought some to celebrate the opening of their shop, and I know where the name comes from. The tang of the liquor is sharp and cuts like a blade and it feels like fire running down your gullet until it reaches your stomach, where it explodes like a supernova of at least a million sparks.

I may not have much experience with alcohol, but even I can tell it takes some practice to down strong stuff like that with such ease.

I’ve never before seen Remus drink any alcohol (save from a little wine at dinner), but now I feel fiercely reminded of Sirius. Sirius, who must have gotten drunk almost every night over the weeks before he died. I’ve watched him down more than one glass like this. He never got drunk in front of us children, though, but I know this was only due to the tolerance for drink he had already achieved by then.

Again I find I’ve been rudely staring at Remus. I don’t try to look away, though. I tense my jaw slightly, stubbornly, showing I’m not backing off this time. Remus returns the look for a while, then a ghostly smile creeps up on his face. Once more it sends shivers down my spine. This is no real smile; it lacks everything a smile requires. There’s no warmth, no amusement, no feeling at all in it.

I watch him take out yet another glass from the cupboard and both of them once again with whisky. I swallow thickly. Remus comes over to me, slowly, a well-filled glass in each hand.

“Here,” he casually says in his hoarse voice as he places the glass on the table in front of me. “Cheers.”

Hesitantly, I take the glass and put it to my lips. I can already feel the first drops burning my skin where I bit my lower lip earlier. Remus watches me curiously.

“What’s wrong, Ron? You’re of age now, aren’t you? You should learn to drink your whisky like a man.”

As if to put some punctuation to his words, Remus downs his own glass in one quick draught, then looks back at me expectantly. I don’t want to disappoint him, so I toss my head back and down the strongly smelling liquid. The effect is the one I recall. I feel the heat crawling from my stomach, where it is blazing like red-hot coals in a fireplace, to my entire body. It’s only seconds before my head becomes light and dazed and I feel comforting, warm laziness settling in my limbs, making them heavy.

Remus nods appreciatively and takes a seat next to me. We do not talk for several minutes. Remus stares right through the papers in front of him, and I, suddenly strangely embarrassed, try to count the freckles on my left arm. I fail poorly, of course; there are millions of the caramel coloured spots and my vision is already a little blurred.

“Ron,” Remus drawls, and even though his voice is quiet, I jerk like he had shouted at me.

“You must forgive me if I’m behaving a little… weird these days. I’m not feeling very well at the moment.”

I pop my weighty head on my palm, cupping my chin as I steady my elbow against the dark wood that is the table.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, and hear myself talking, as if it was somebody else speaking. As I said, I’m not used to having conversations like this. It is either the alcohol or Remus’s somewhat disturbing presence… but right now I feel fit to have my first profound interlocution. 

Remus shakes his head and for a moment I’m gravely disappointed. So he’s just going to send me off with that, isn’t he? Didn’t he just say I was a man? Then I realise he’s merely thinking about how to answer my question; he’s going to talk to me like we are on a par.

I don’t think there are many people that don’t dismiss me when I talk to them. Perhaps I spent too much time in Harry’s shadow and people have gotten used to me as Harry’s dim-witted sidekick. To my mother, I will always be her little boy, no matter what (well – unless I steal the car again, which could earn me dispossession. Not that there is anything to be dispossessed of, anyway). To my brothers, I will be their little brother, and to Ginny, I am the youngest of her big brothers, who also happens to be her ex-boyfriend’s best friend. Hermione never takes anyone as equal anyway (she always gets this “Oh my God, this is a sponge trying to compete with Einstein” look when we’re discussing something, which is a bit annoying, really), and the teachers… well, either they are teaching a subject I’m bad at (Snape probably doubts I can count to three) or they’re far too concerned with Harry being – once again – in mortal danger to even realise I exist.

The only time Sirius and I got close was when he bit my leg and I cried like a little girl. I can’t dispose myself of the idea that ever since then he thought of me as a little wimp.

I’ve almost gotten used to people thinking I can’t tell left from right. Still, it is annoying as hell whenever I give it a thought, and when Remus talks to me man to man, I’m thrilled. Thrilled and eager to prove I can cope with the challenge.

“I feel… like… I’m not myself these days,” Remus continues slowly, not looking at me. “I’m falling apart. You know – all the excitement of the last weeks, the fruitlessness of our research, the frustration…” He shakes his head sadly, apologetically. 

“I know I’m tougher than I look, but right now… it’s too much for me. I’ve already seen too much shit for one life, Ron.”

I nod, even though he can’t see my gesture of comprehension. I decide I should say something, or our conversation will come to an early end now.

“Uhm… perhaps you should have another go at Tonks?” I suggest before I know what I am saying. 

Remus looks at me, confused, and I wish I could take it back. “Whatever do you mean by that?”

“You know,” I go on, blushing again, while trying to wriggle out of the uncomfortable situation I’ve gotten myself into. “I mean… it would ease the frustration thing. At least a little. Wouldn’t it?” 

Remus raises an eyebrow. I can’t tell whether he’s amused or angered. I hope it’s not the latter.

“You mean sexual frustration?” he finally says, and when I look up there’s a tiny little grin on his lips. 

I’m relieved. But only until he gives a short, husky laugh that has not the tiniest hint of humour to it. Remus buries his face in his shaking hands, rubbing his fingertips over his closed eyes.

“You have no idea,” he says and his voice is tired now. “You have no idea what kind of frustration builds inside you if you wait twelve years for your lover. Twelve years, and you never know whether you will ever actually see him again. Twelve years, and you try not to think that he has murdered thirteen people and sold out your best friends. Twelve years, Ron. Do you know what a fucking long time that is?”

I merely stare at him, jaw fallen open. My mind is whirling around and there’s an annoying rushing in my ears. He can’t… I must have misunderstood something! Must be the bloody alcohol. I’m about to say something when Remus beats me to it.

“And then – after I get him back, after I learn he is innocent, he never did any of the things they arrested him for, and all that bloody time he suffered for nothing – after having him back for just two pathetic years, I lose him again. For good, this time. And now I have to sit in his bloody house, where everything reminds me of him. God!”

I can see his hands shaking even more when they tighten their grip in Remus’s early greying hair. I find I’m doing the impression of a goldfish, my jaw working without words coming out of my lips.

“So… you… you and Sirius…?” I finally manage, intelligently, and Remus looks at me again. 

His eyes have gone dark and I try my best to overlook the glassy expression that either indicates drunkenness or tears. I don’t want to see either in them.

“Yes,” he merely says. “Please, don’t tell Harry. I don’t want him to know; he already feels guilty enough.”

I nod again, fighting the urge to hug the man in front of me for his words. He’s the first person to phrase it that way: _don’t tell Harry._ It’s normally, _don’t tell Ron._ Harry is my best mate, but still, it’s a matter of principle.

Remus looks so small and vulnerable next to me. Has he always been that thin and bony? I know his face has not always looked tired and spent; I’ve seen photographs from the time when they were all young and fit, Sirius, Harry’s dad and Remus. He was pretty back then. Pale, yes, tired, a little, but still pretty. And his eyes had not forgotten how to smile back then.

Before I actually know what happens, I have approached and put one arm around his shoulders. I pull him into a one-armed hug and he gives in, leaning against me like Hermione would. It’s exciting and weird, since it is at the same time so very different from Hermione. Remus’s shoulder under my hand feels contemporaneously strong and weak, firm and fragile, and I vaguely wonder whether everything is so ambivalent about Remus Lupin. 

“Sirius… had changed when he came back from Azkaban,” Remus goes on, merely whispering. He looks frightened as the words come over his lips, like he wants to stop himself from saying all this but can’t.

I keep on holding him, even though it hurts. It hurts to feel Remus’s hurt. 

“He… wouldn’t let me in his life again like he used to do. He was broken, he was afraid, he had lost faith in the world and the people around him. He had lost trust in me, because I had doubted him, because I had thought him capable of… of… you know. I didn’t understand anything. I just… kept on pushing him, urging him to open up to me again. But I was never what he needed, Ron. I couldn’t give him anything. I couldn’t protect him.”

There are violent shivers raking over Remus’s body, and I can tell the worst part is yet to come.

“I feel like… I let him die!”

I gulp. What am I supposed to say now? _Nonsense, Remus, it was Bellatrix Lestrange that killed him. It was Harry who actually lured him there. It was Kreacher who set up the misunderstanding!_

It’s all true, but what comfort would this be to the man? Even I understand this is not about casual fault. It is about emotions, about love and hate and passion and fear, and no logical argument could ever discuss such pain away. It is irrational and no amount of logic will ever ease it.

But the feeling of Remus’s agony is unbearable, and so I try to offer comfort in the only way I possibly can. I nuzzle my nose into the man’s greying hair, not actually knowing why I do this, why I think this will make him feel any better. But still I do it. Surprisingly, Remus gives in to my touch and I feel how his body slowly relaxes against mine.

I have never cuddled with a man. But I have to admit, it’s not half as bad as I imagined it would be.

This is when I feel a warm, bony hand coming up to stroke my cheek. My eyes go wide. I am so startled by the sudden display of affection that I do not even think of backing away. What is he doing? And what am I doing? Why am I holding still? Why do I let myself enjoy the touch? He’s Remus, he’s Professor Lupin, he’s a werewolf, he’s drunk and he’s bloody in love with a dead man – so why the hell am I allowing this?

I really know I should move away, get up, tell him I’m not that way. I could do it gently; I wouldn’t even have to hurt him. Why do my feet refuse obedience, though? Why am I still sitting on this stupid chair?

The answer is as simple as it is horrifying. Because I want to. Because it feels good. Right.

I close my eyes in exasperation, half hoping Remus will realise what he’s doing and stop before any more damage is done, half wishing he will continue with whatever he is doing.

When soft lips come up to touch mine, my breath catches in my throat. This can’t be real. I must be dreaming. I’d better wake up before it gets bloody embarrassing. Shouldn’t I? Strangely, I find I don’t really want to. Not at all.

Remus’s tongue brushes against my lips and I taste Firewhisky and a distinctly male scent on them. Which is not bad. Which is – quite frankly – bloody arousing. Hell! This is wrong. This is wrong. This is… but how can something be wrong if it feels this right? My mind is spinning out of orbit. A galaxy blows up behind my eyes when I hesitantly open my mouth to permit for entrance.

Kissing a girl has never felt this intense. Even though I spent almost half a year snogging Lavender Brown, my tongue shoved down her throat so deeply I think I should’ve been able to taste her tonsils. Kissing Hermione has been exciting and arousing as well – but, fuck, this is nothing short of a volcano in my guts, erupting heat and liquid magma as it burns me from inside.

I realise this is not _although_ it is Remus, this is _because_ it is Remus. How sick and twisted must I be to feel that way? 

My mind runs out of blood at this moment, however, since the latter is needed elsewhere, and along with blood ratio and sense, bid farewell to Mr Brain. My arousal, which has been only vague so far, becomes terribly palpable now. In every sense of the word. A thousand meaningless reasons for no are outweighed by a thousand and one meaningless reasons for yes – and I succumb.

I submit, defeated, betrayed by my own body. 

I do not object when Remus pulls me closer, when he breaks our kiss to breathe into my hair. I let him lick my neck and nibble softly at it. I think I want him even closer, perhaps even biting me. I hope he won’t make me say this, though. He doesn’t. Just like he’s read my thoughts, he presses closer to my flesh, biting down on it, sucking pale skin into his mouth, drawing blood through the pores, and I arch up into this violation of my body. I know this will leave a mark, quite a visible one, but right now I do not give a shit.

I don’t quite know how we got there, actually, but suddenly we are on the rug on the floor, and my shirt has already ridden half way up. Remus is straddling me, his weight pushing oh so lovely down on my straining cock. The man’s hands are under my shirt, pinching and teasing my nipples in a way that is bound to be painful, but I find it is not. Quite frankly, I’m eager to get more of this, more of these expert hands that appear to know so exactly what my body wants. When I peer out under heavy-lidded eyes, I find Remus’s amber eyes staring at me with undisguised hunger and desire.

It is normally pretty scary to be eyed hungrily by a werewolf, but it merely forces shivers up and down my spine – pleasant ones – that make my back arch and my cock jump.

I toss my head back and close my eyes, since I’m willing to let it all happen, to take whatever Remus has to give. 

“Take off your shirt,” a hoarse voice commands, and I comply. I toss it away carelessly, and my bare chest heaves. I think I’m blushing again. Once again. I really wonder whether I will ever grow out of the blushing stage. Remus’s hands wander over my torso, slowly, admiringly, distracting me from any other thoughts. I feel as nervous as a virgin. Which I am, in the technical sense of the word.

“You are beautiful,” Remus whispers. I gasp. I don’t think anyone has ever called me beautiful before. Cute, yes. Beautiful, no.

He leans in to kiss me again, and I can’t help pushing my torso up, meeting him halfway. Our lips crush together, – I don’t think he meant it to be that rough, but I did – teeth click against teeth and slick tongues touch, stroking each other. I can feel Remus’s crotch brushing over mine, as if by coincidence. I groan in his mouth at the sensation. Self-control is overrated, I decide, and push my hips up, rubbing my cock eagerly against Remus’s groin. God, that’s good. I find the telltale hardness that is Remus’s erection, and I focus my thrusts on that point.

Remus moans against my lips, and if possible, I grow even harder. I have reached the state of painful hardness, and I’m more than willing to speed things up. I thrust a little faster, trying to deliver the message to Remus, but to my utmost confusion and disapproval, he decides to pull back in response. My eyes flutter open in bemusement. What…?

Remus looks at me, jaw tense and nostrils widening with heavy intakes of breath. My first impression is that he must be angry for some reason. But then I realise he’s trying to fight the beast back. My heart skips a beat. The wolf is stirring beneath the surface again, wanting to break free. And it’s because of me. The thought is so fucking arousing that for a moment, I’m afraid I’m about to come straight away in my pants.

“Ron,” Remus says, chest heaving with the exertion of an inner fight. “We shouldn’t be doing this. I mean… you’re still so young and innocent...”

I snort. Young and innocent, my arse! Sounds like a quote from a penny dreadful.

“And I am so…” 

_What, old? Corrupted? Bestial? Yes. Perhaps all of that. That’s why I want you._

I’m not sure whether I actually said all that or if he merely read it in my eyes. Either way it helps to convince him. I pull him down again, and he doesn’t fight it, even though he’s still a little reluctant. Our cocks press together again, and we both moan at the friction we’re creating.

“Ron,” he breathes, close to my ear. “God, Ron, are you sure you want this?”

I want to point out that he is, perhaps, a little late asking this, since we’re both so bloody horny, since our cocks are matching so perfectly, since I’m already about to lose it. I can’t find the words, though, and so I merely nod frantically. I am rewarded with a circling movement of Remus’s hips against mine. I hiss and toss my head back.

“Tell me,” he whispers. “Tell me what you want.”

That one is easy. “ _You_. I want you.”

This earns me a slick tongue teasing the shell and the lobe of my ear. Teeth are gently biting down on the sensitive spot. I moan, relishing the tingling sensation that runs down my body.

“Tell me what you want me to do to you!”

“I… don’t know…” _Everything._

“Do you want me to touch you _there_?”

“Yes!” _Definitely._

Remus doesn’t stop tongue-fucking my ear as his right hand wrestles with my fly, unzips it. It slides inside my pants and wraps around my throbbing member, which is absolutely thrilled by the sensation of an experienced, strong, male hand stroking it. And God, Remus knows what I like. He instinctively sets the right pace, the right angle, the right pressure, and I moan helplessly against the crook of his neck.

“You like that?” he breathes, and all I can say is, “G… God,” which comes out in a strangled, tortured groan. I’m close, I’m so fucking close, just a few more strokes like that and I’ll…

Remus pulls back. Now, I’m rather close to crying. My whole body is shaking, throbbing; blood is rushing in my ears. I don’t think there are many things as frustrating as being stopped on the brink of orgasm. Remus places soothing kisses at the side of my face to make up for it.

“Sorry for that. But I don’t want this to be over too soon.”

When I’ve calmed down again, Remus sits up and starts unbuttoning his shirt. The fabric reveals scarred skin. My heart almost stops at the sight of what must be at least a thousand cicatrices. There are old white ones, and fresh pink and red ones. I gulp, hardly able to resist the urge to touch them, to let my fingertips run over the slightly embossed skin. 

Then I spot it, shortly above his left hipbone: this one does not look like a scratch; this one is the result of a wound that has run far deeper.

“Is that…?” I ask, feeling shy all of a sudden.

Remus nods. “Yes. That’s where Greyback bit me. Infected me. Go ahead; you can touch it if you want.”

I reach out and let my fingers brush over the scar tissue. It feels strange: somewhat hard and hot against my skin. I can feel the man’s pulse throbbing in it. _Exciting._ Remus closes his eyes and hisses softly. I pull back.

“Fuck, did I hurt you?”

Remus shakes his head. “It always hurts. Don’t worry; I’m alright.”

He starts undoing his trousers and tells me to do the same. Then he makes me go on my hands and knees, which I do with a bemused expression on my face.

“What…?”

“There’s something I want you to feel. Relax. It will feel very awkward at first, but trust me, you’ll love it afterwards.”

_God_ , I think, _he’s not going to… not without any preparation?_ I know from the few times I’ve been with Lavender that you have to put at least a finger in before you go… well, all the way. 

My anxiety proves unnecessary, though, since Remus does not intend to hump me just like this. Instead, he kneels behind me and spreads my cheeks, which I answer with an uneasy twitch, and then – oh hell – I feel hot breath against my… well, parts of my body certainly _no one_ has ever breathed against before. I almost jump to my feet then, I’m so startled, but strong hands grip my hipbones and hold me down. I shiver. What is he up to? 

Suddenly, I am very aware of how much more experienced Remus is. A thought arousing and somewhat frightening at the same time. I gulp and close my eyes, anxious about what is yet to come, what Remus has planned for me.

I feel something hot and slick sliding over my entrance and my eyes open up widely. Oh. Oh! _Oh fucking hell,_ he can’t be serious about this! I wince helplessly. That is probably the sickest, weirdest, strangest – best – experience of my life! GOD!

Despite myself, I’m melting under the hot licking of Remus’s skilled tongue. It’s just so… so… bloody incredible.

I don’t find it particularly hard to concentrate on nothing but the sensation of a circling, probing tongue at my entrance, and soon I dig my fingers into the rug beneath me, wishing for this to never stop. My cock is bobbing angrily against my flat stomach, clamouring to get the same attention as my lower regions. But when I wrap my fist around it with a fierce desperation to come, Remus slaps it away with a deep, throaty growl.

“Please,” I whimper. “I need to… _please_!”

I then feel two things simultaneously. First is Remus shaking his head in denial, his hair brushing teasingly over the sensitive skin of my cheeks as he does so. And second: something… being… pushed… inside… me. I gasp for air when a finger starts teasing my warm insides, and I involuntarily clench around it, half in pain, half in anxiety. Remus’s other hand comes up and soothingly strokes my thigh while his lips trail softly over the small of my back until I relax. He shamelessly takes advantage of this and inserts a second finger. He spreads them inside me, loosening the tense muscles, and it is only then that I realise to what purpose he does all this.

Bloody hell. What am I supposed to do? Do I actually want this? Him? 

Suddenly, Remus pulls back – which makes me feel awkwardly empty inside, making me realise that yes, indeed, I do want this, I want it so fucking _badly_ – and leans over my back, his cock stabbing against my backside. God, he’s as hard as I am. He wants this as much as I do; he wants me as much as I want him. The thought makes my dick jump in excitement again.

“Do you… want to go all the way, Ron? Do you want me to fuck you?”

Who am I to deny such an arousing, urgently breathed request? Who am I to say no to Remus Lupin?

“God, YES!” I pant, shivering with anticipation and fear and lust and panic. I’m going to get fucked. By my former teacher. Who is a werewolf, more than twice my age, and my mother will shred both of us to pieces if she ever finds out… I must’ve had these thoughts in mind for the umpteenth time this night, but still, they don’t fail to make my body tingle in anticipation. 

I’m so lost in pre-coital wallowing, it takes a while for me to notice Remus wants something from me. I look up, trying to break through the excited haze that fogs my mind, and find myself face to face with Remus’s groin. With his cock, actually.

“Go on,” Remus orders, his voice all husky. “Suck it. You will want to get it all nice and wet before I push inside you, won’t you? Seeing that we don’t have any lube in here…”

I gulp, nodding. Under Remus’s observing amber eyes, I open my mouth and take him in as deep as I can. Which is not that deep, frankly, but after all, this is only the first time I’m doing this. And considering the fact I always lost spectacularly in eating competitions against my brothers (who have a way of gorging food like ducks without turning a hair), I’m quite impressed I’m not gagging at all. Remus seems to be content with my ministrations as well. He hisses approvingly, his hands caressing my hair.

“There’s a good boy. Yeah, that’s it.”

I feel encouraged to suck him harder. He moans. Good. This is not so bad at all. I whirl my tongue around the swollen head and taste salty drops of pre-cum. Funny, but not appalling. Curious. Arousing. 

“Shhh, easy Ron,” Remus breathes. “You don’t need to try and make me come. Just get it wet.”

Wet it is. Remus seems to think so, too, since he pulls back and turns me around. I’m still on my hands and knees, and now he nudges against my entrance.

“This will hurt,” he says, casually, and then thrusts in. 

I bite down on the back of my hand, suffocating the yell that wants to break from the top of my lungs. It fucking damn well hurts! My body was not made for such a rude invasion!

Remus holds still, gives me time to get used to the size. His hand reaches around my waist and starts stroking my cock, which has lost a bit of its urgency over the pain. Remus’s ministrations, however, bring it back to life, and I feel myself relaxing around the foreign piece of flesh inside me.

“Are you alright?” Remus whispers. “Should I start moving?”

I fight the urge to groan and say _What? You also want to move? Isn’t it bad enough yet?_ Instead, I pull myself together – don’t be such a wuss, Weasley! – and nod.

Remus starts pushing in and out, slowly, carefully, and after some minutes, during which I think I’m about to kick the bucket, it starts to feel good. Really good. I relax even more – Remus answers this by increasing his speed – and let myself enjoy what he does to me.

Suddenly, something he does makes me jump and my entire body twitches. A hot wave of pleasure washes over my body and I feel I’m breaking a sweat.

“What was that?” I croak, my eyes wide open.

“This?” Remus thrusts in once more and makes me feel it all over again.

“Uh…”

“That’s your prostate, Ron. Like this?”

“Oh fuck, yes!”

Remus continues pushing against that wonderful spot I didn’t know my body possessed. It isn’t long before he has reduced me to sobbing and pleading for more in a highly degrading way, but I don’t care about appropriate and inappropriate anymore. Hell, I can’t tell up from down now! I’m not even sure about my own name – was it Ronil or Runold? – but then Remus reminds me, panting it out while he thrusts inside me, hard, harder, deeper, and all I want is to come, to spurt my insides out; I want to come while he is inside me, while he is coming inside me; I want this so desperately, and oh, if he would just touch my cock once more before I implode, oh Merlin, oh hell, oh bloody fucking…

“Remus,” I cry. “Now! God, please, NOW!”

I’m so ready; I have never been so ready; I have never wanted, _needed_ to come that badly in my life, and when Remus fists my cock, it is nothing short of an explosion. I feel like I come stars and the moon and the sun and I can no longer feel the ground I’m standing – well, _kneeling_ – on.

I’m vaguely aware of Remus climaxing as well, his fingers digging almost painfully into my hips. We collapse on the rug afterwards, spent, exhausted, sated. Our hearts beat erratically and our breath is close to hyperventilation. 

“Bloody hell,” is the first thing I say when my breath has slowed down. “That was… that was…”

“Yes,” Remus says, somewhat neutrally. “I know. I’m sorry.”

I’m bewildered. “What? Why?”

Remus looks at me and the wolf is gone from his features. There’s just sensible Remus Lupin in his eyes, measuring me with a guilty expression.

“Because it was wrong, Ron. I took advantage of you. I shouldn’t have and I deeply regret it.”

“What?” I say again, unaware I’m repeating myself. “That’s bullshit! You didn’t take advantage of me; I fucking _wanted_ this! I’m not sorry in the least!”

“But Ron, you are too…”

I sit upright, my eyes blazing. “Too what? Too young? I’m of age, after all. I can take care of myself, thank you very much.”

Remus keeps staring at me, his eyes full of concern and anxiety. I hate to see them like this. He shouldn’t be looking at me like this – not any more.

“But…”

“No dice,” I say, willing down my anger. “You’re not wriggling your way out of this, wolf. Look; we fucked. Well? It was great, but it’s not like you have to marry me now, you know? There’s no need to wear sackcloth and ashes because of it!”

Remus still looks at me, thoughtfully. And then, slowly – tantalisingly slowly – I see the troubled expression softening. Now the corners of his lips twitch. Can it be…? Right. Remus smiles, hesitantly, but it is definitely a smile. A real smile. He flops back on the carpet, then, his scarred arms coming up to stroke damp wisps of hair off his forehead.

“Sirius used to call me wolf, too, you know?” he says dreamily. I cast him a sceptic glance. What’s that supposed to mean?

Remus catches it and shakes his head. I’m surprised to see how young the smile makes him look.

“I know you’re not him, Ron, don’t worry. It’s just… you seem to have the same effect on me as he did. You, too, have this ability to make me do reckless things. And afterwards, when I get cold feet, you soothe me about it, just as he would do. It all seemed so easy with him. And so it does with you.”

He laughs hoarsely, the first real laughter I’ve heard from him in months. I, too, smile when I cuddle up to him, head resting on his chest even though I’m actually the taller one. He wraps one arm around me affectionately and pulls me close, nuzzling my hair, which I find surprisingly pleasant. 

I think we’ve fallen asleep at some point, and considering we didn’t even bother to lock the door, it’s a bloody miracle no one has walked in on us.

~o*O*o~

_Liked it? Hated it? Please review anyway ;)_

_Continued in lady_aubrey's fantastic spin-off, which can be found on www.mostpotente.net_


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